


Witness

by luthorienne



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luthorienne/pseuds/luthorienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes strangers see us most clearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witness

It is a fact that most nursing home deaths occur at night.

A variety of theories have been offered to account for this, but he believes it’s because night is when the walls between the worlds grow thin and transparent, and we reach out to one another, in love or in despair or in rage, across the void. Sometimes he hears the calls. 

He does his best work at night.

This is an expensive place, a place that should have many staff to keep watch over the sleepers. It doesn’t, though, and he slips through the corridors soundlessly, seeking the room where a Hydra kingpin lies sleeping, cocooned by drugs and complacency as he recovers from a knee replacement. 

_“This isn’t a signature piece, Barton. Just make it look like he stopped breathing in his sleep.”_

It should have been harder; he should have needed to work harder at this. If not because of the staff here, then because of Hydra. But they had offered no challenges, and now here he was, and the nice, fluffy pillows were ample for his purposes, and with barely even a struggle, breathing had slowed, slowed and stopped. No monitors, so he need fear no alarms; and the pillow slid easily back under the lolling head, no reason even to suspect anything wrong. He had not even felt the life slip out from under his hands. It was a gentler ending than this man deserved.

He stood a moment in the darkened room, listening for the voices across the barrier, but he heard nothing. The whole place had a muffled stillness, like London in a thick fog; the flooring was cushioned so footsteps would not echo, and the walls were covered with fabric to absorb sound. It would be unfortunate if anyone were to hear cries of pain or sorrow. Head cocked to one side, he contemplated the dead features. He knew them well from long study, knew the vicious devisings that had taken shape in that balding, fragile-looking skull. The face now was placid, mouth relaxed in death, hands that had barely risen as he did his work lying now curled, relaxed on the sheet. In an hour or so, there would be a nurse strolling along the corridor, and if she merely glanced in from the doorway, as he assumed she would, she would see this dead man sleeping peacefully and would continue on her rounds. We see what we expect to see.

Sighing, he stepped into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him. A hundred and sixty steps, two right turns and a left, and he would be back at the vacant room where he would exit as he had entered: through the window. It was 3:36, eleven minutes since he had entered. 

He walked silently back toward his exit point, not hastily but with purpose. For whatever reason, SHIELD didn’t want their thumbprints on this one, and so he would pass unremarked from the building. As he walked, he took note of the little details along the corridor: children’s drawings on this door, a flower wreath on that one. There were convalescent patients, elderly people and Alzheimers’ patients behind these doors. And now there was one fewer.

He took his second right turn and stopped short, taken aback to see an elderly woman with a white cane tapping along the hall. Blind. All right. He would slip past. 

She was tiny and stooped, a cloud of white hair poorly confined in a braid that had clearly been slept on for at least part of this night. She wore a pink bathrobe, but he frowned to see that her feet were bare, white and knobby. Her eyes, once perhaps blue, were now milky and he thought she looked very sad. The hand that held the white cane was twisted with arthritis, but it bore a gold ring, long worn thin. He longed to lead her back to a warm bed, but that was not his place.

As he glided past, a seven-foot hallway between them, she turned her head in his direction, listening. He paused, held his breath. She smiled, walked toward him, her seeking hand outstretched.

“I know you,” she said softly. His breath caught, and he flinched away from the blind hand. He should run. But it was too late: she caught his hand and held it. Hers was cool, dry, powdery, and she smiled, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. He couldn’t breathe. 

“I know you,” she said again. “I’m Emily. Harold and I were together. I was asleep when you came for him. But I’m ready now. I’ve missed him so.” Her face was a terrible mix of hope and longing, and he swallowed, the sound loud in the silence.

“Emily,” he whispered, not sure what he would say next. _You should go back to bed. Be warm. Dream of Harold._

“That’s right,” she smiled, delighted. “I knew you’d know me.” She kissed the back of his hand and pressed it to her cheek once more. “You’re Death, aren’t you?”

His throat was too full for him to speak, blood roaring in his ears. He crouched before her, cradling her face in his hands, touching his forehead to hers. 

“Yes,” he said sadly. “But I’m not here for you tonight, sweetheart.”

Her milky eyes filled with tears, and as they spilled down the pale cheeks, he wiped them away with his thumbs. 

“I miss Harold,” she said, childlike. He swallowed again. 

“I know you do. You’ll see him soon, sweetheart, and then you’ll be together forever.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and stood, holding her hand gently. “Can you find your way back to bed?”

“Yes.” She relinquished his hand reluctantly. “You’ll come back for me?”

“I promise. When it’s time, I’ll come for you, no matter where you are, and take you to Harold.”

Three minutes later, he was back in the car with Coulson, who frowned in concern at the expression on his face.

“Everything okay?” he asked. Clint nodded.

“Were you seen?” Coulson asked. Clint drew a long breath.

“No,” he said. “But I was recognized.”

**Author's Note:**

> Clint needs a hug. I hope he gets one.


End file.
